


25 Days of Ship-mas

by AmeliaFriend



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series), Kissing in the Rain (Web Series)
Genre: Baking, Bickering, Christmas Lights, F/M, Hogwarts Professors!AU, Kissing in the Snow, coffee shop!AU, genderbend!au, mermaid!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaFriend/pseuds/AmeliaFriend
Summary: 25 days, 25 one shots. Some of them will be winter/Christmas themed, some of them will be excuses to write every AU I ever wanted.





	1. Wellenore: Christmas Lights

“I thought you said you packed them carefully so they _wouldn’t_ get as tangled as last year.”

“I said ‘probably’. And they’re not as tangled as last year.” It was cute, the hope in his voice. Utterly useless, but still cute.

“No. They’re worse.” Her voice deadpan, and HG couldn’t argue – because Lenore wasn’t kidding, as she sorted the tightly wound … mess of string and wire and lights, that used to be the outdoor lights HG put together for last year, and hopefully will be again if she could ever actually turn it into some semblance of a straight line once again.

 

A particularly stubborn piece (even more so than the rest of the standard level stubborn pieces) came along and Lenore could _feel_ her nail bending in a direction it definitely wasn’t supposed to.

“If I break a nail it’s all your fault.” She muttered, without even looking up from her work.

“We’re ghosts, Lenore, we are frozen at the moment of our demise, and that means that you cannot break your nails.” His voice was patient, almost a year and a half since he died, he was far more comfortable with the fact that he was in fact … dead, than he had been this time the previous year – even if he had still enjoyed the benefits of ghost-hood from the beginning.

He didn’t think he’d ever be completely comfortable with the fact that he was dead – even if the time travel and Lenore more than made up for the life he had lost – but maybe one day he would. Lenore didn’t seem to miss living very much, and she’d only been dead around five years.

 

But now was not the time for such thoughts – now was Christmas.

“I thought we discussed this last year. December 1st is not Christmas.”

Lenore’s voice broke into his thoughts, and while the brief thought of _telepath_ thought crossed his mind, he quickly realised that he had actually been speaking aloud.

“It is the month of Christmas, and that makes it Christmas.” It was an old argument, one that had not truly gone away at any point during the entire year, but also one which lacked heat or anger in any way.

“It is not the 25th of December, and therefore not Christmas.” It was a logical point she made, but …

“But Halloween lasts the entire month of October?”

“Don’t you go bringing Halloween into this. That’s different.”

“Completely different,” he agreed, a smile almost breaking on his face mirroring the one almost breaking on hers, before they both returned to the task at hand.

 

“Anyway, how did Edgar and Annabel get out of this?” Lenore asked, not at all being subtle with her change of subject.

“They went shopping. They’ll be helping hang the lights later, when they get help.”

“I could go shopping. I’m _really_ good at shopping.” She knew they’d gone out – not that they were going shopping. Without her. That was practically an insult to her superior shopping _everything_.

“With Edgar? They need presents, not a blood bath at the market when Edgar buys his eighth present for Annabel without getting anything that’s actually on the list.”

Lenore couldn’t argue with that. Shopping with Annabel was almost perfect Girl Time, shopping with HG was perfect in a different way, and shopping with Edgar made her wonder if she hadn’t fallen into Hell by mistake.

 

And that – wait one moment, just a tiny, no, wait … um, yes! Finally – the first mess of lights is now one long string, and Lenore feels very proud of her efforts.

Well, until the moment she realises that there are at least four more to go (and that’s with HG doing the other four as well – why do they even have so many lights. What is the purpose of them? And more questions she will never actually ask, because HG loves the lights, and Annabel loves the lights and Edgar loves Annabel and thus what Annabel loves, so it doesn’t matter their purpose, because they really don’t have one.)

 

“Maybe this year, we can work out a way they _actually_ won’t get completely tangled again.” She’s only being half sarcastic as she picks up the next lump of lights and starts to slowly pick away at it. She half really would like to try and find a way to not have to do this Every Single Year.

“If we left them up all year and never packed them away, we wouldn’t have to detangle them again.”

It was a good point, and it made her pause for almost half a second before she caught herself. “No, we are not being _that_ house with Christmas decorations all year round. We can just invent a machine that detangles them for us. Or lights that don’t get tangled in the first place.”

“ _We_ can invent something you say?”

“You can invent something, and I can give helpful suggestions.”

“Like your usual useful suggestions?”

“My suggestions are always useful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now imagine it just keeps going on and on and on, bickering and detangling Christmas lights. I think it's a cute idea! Let me know if you liked it, and if you have any plot ideas - Poe Party, Gilded Lily, Kissing in the Rain, I take them all and may write them this month!!


	2. Wellenore: Mermaid!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally what the title says - a mermaid AU. I told you I was gonna write all the AUs!

It begins with the sea and the falling and the burning in his chest, and he can’t breathe, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…

And it continues with her – dark hair and a white tail and definitely a figment of his dying mind, except what figment of his dying mind could drag him back up to the surface of the water.

 

She’s gone by the time he opens his eyes – finally safe on land, air deep in his lungs, and a fresh new promise to wear a life jacket next time he tries to do that again.

The premise may have been flawed, and his actions almost directly led to his death, and he has a lot of improvements to work on before _that_ invention is deemed a success – but none of it seems to matter, because _he just saw a mermaid_.

* * *

 

No one believes him of course.

 

Not that he has many people to tell.

Most of his friends coincidentally stopped talking to him the first time he blew up their home (accidentally of course – he honestly hadn’t known the reaction would be _that_ strong. And besides, 90% of the building was still inhabitable. Mostly.). The accidental poisoning (it wasn’t fatal, he doesn’t know why they complained so much) of the soup at a dinner party had been the last straw for the few who were still talking to him.

 

Still – he tries to tell people.

 

It’s not that they don’t believe in mermaids – everyone knows mermaids exist, they’re just as real as dogs or cats or anything else on earth. It’s just they don’t go near shore, and they stay away from humans mostly (the best pictures of them always come from the unmanned drone cameras – the ones the mermaids don’t realise are filming them until it’s too late), and when they do go near humans they don’t rescue them, they drag them down to the depths until they’re never seen from again.

 

And even if he did see a mermaid, he better not push his luck and try to meet her again.

Mermaids hate that.

 

He returns to the same spot the next day.

She doesn’t show up.

He returns the day after that.

She doesn’t show up.

He returns the day after that.

She doesn’t show up.

His days fall into a routine.

 

He can do his inventing (his words) – also referred to as “tinkering” by his friends, and “messing with what should not be messed with” by his not-really-friends – anywhere. He might as well do it here.

* * *

 

She reappears three weeks later.

“Lenore,” she introduces herself, lounging on a rock, “the lady mermaid” she continues as though that wasn’t immediately obvious. Her voice hurts his ears – it’s not a sound that’s meant to be carried in the air, not a sound meant for _human_ ears.

“HG,” he offers regardless, and he goes to shake her hand, but he’s awkward and somehow manages to get something as simple as that completely wrong.

But she’s amused, and there’s a wry turn to her lips, and when he returns the next day, she’s already there.

* * *

 

 

The earliest copy of his translator … thing, is ready two days after the second time he meets her.

It’s a simple idea – instead of her words travelling into the air, they travel into a tube of water and _then_ into the air. The result is a voice which sounds almost human, but not quite, but it no longer makes his ears want to bleed.

It’s large and bulky, and needs refilling with water every fifteenth or so word, and it’s definitely a “first draft” sort of idea, but he knows how he can improve it – he just needs a bit more time.

 

She likes it though. She takes it with her back down to the deep when she decides it’s time to go.

She thinks it’s weird, and she thinks he’s weird, but she likes him too.

She tells him about her life deep beneath the water – not the big stuff, the secret stuff, the stuff only for mermaid ears – but the important things, the little things. She tells him about her love of fashion, the family she had to leave long ago, the (many, many) friends (and annoyances masquerading as friends) she had, and the mermaid she was going to marry before he died.

 

HG hadn’t known mermaids could die. It made sense, but he’d never thought about it before.

He doesn’t want to think about why he’s so glad she has friends, but no one … more than friends.

They’re not even the same species.

 

 _You cannot be born a mermaid_ , she tells him once, _only reborn_.

He doesn’t understand. Of course, he doesn’t.

No one knows where mermaids come from. Well – no human knows where mermaids come from.

None of them ever asked a mermaid, and even if they had, no one ever got an answer.

* * *

 

Their life continues in their new normal for three months.

HG spends as much time as he can on the water, and Lenore spends every minute she can on the surface.

They’re together, straddling the line between water and air and still both of them are uncomfortable.

They return every day.

* * *

 

It ends the same way it began.

The sea and the falling and the burning in his chest, and he can’t breathe, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…

It continues with her, his dear Lenore – still dark hair and white tail but she doesn’t save him this time, doesn’t steal his from the waters grasp and deliver him to the shore.

 

Someone had been waiting for him today – someone who realised he’d been telling the truth that time a mermaid saved him.

 

The boat overturned, and he’s been on the water every single day – on it, not in it, and he still can’t swim and he went down, down, down, and she wasn’t there yet.

(He’s glad she wasn’t there yet. They didn’t care about him – they wanted a mermaid, a real life mermaid, and he’s glad they’ll never get their hands on her).

 

But she’s here now, so far below the surface, and she’s watching, and she’s waiting, and he thinks she looks a little bit terrified, but there’s no space in his brain for her terror when he can’t breathe, he’s sinking, he’s drowning – he’s twice as deep as he ever was the first time, and even with her help, he can’t make it to the surface in time. They both know it.

 

The edges of his vision darkens, until all he can see is a pinprick, directly in front of him.

And she’s there, just as she’s always there – and dying with her there is slightly less terrifying than dying without her there, and there’s a thousand things he should have said when he could speak. _Herbert George_ , he thinks, he knows her name, she should have known his. It’s a terrible name, but he wishes she would have known it, would have remembered him.

 

The blackness and the tightness reach a breaking point, and there’s nothing more he can do.

He breathes in, unable to hold his breath a moment longer and holding his breath is killing him and maybe breathing won’t kill.

He breathes out.

He breathes in.

 

He’s not dying anymore.

 

He breathes again, just to make sure.

Why had he been holding his breath so long when he could breathe just as easily here as he could on the … surface.

He looks up, the water stretching for seemingly miles above him.

Yep. He is … breathing underwater. This is … a thing that’s happening.

 

“HG?” She says, and it’s definitely not the screaming ache of her voice in the air, and it’s not even the beautiful melody he heard through his listening machine. It’s more than that, better and softer and more melodic than he could have known anything could be.

“Lenore?” he replies, and his voice is garbled and bubbly and maybe with practise it could sound like hers, but from the look on her face, she doesn’t seem to care.

 

She takes his hand, and this time when she disappears into the depths, she doesn’t disappear alone.

 

 _The tail comes later_ , he remembers her saying once on their earlier talks, as he kicks furiously and begrudging his two legs – just trying to keep up with her graceful movements, _but it comes eventually_.

He follows her down, and down, and down, further than he ever knew the water led.

 

There’s another world she’s been waiting to show him.

 


	3. James/Lily: Kissing in the Snow

The weekend away had been Lily’s idea, but James wasn’t arguing by any means – both of them had just wrapped on their separate projects, and they had no pressing obligations (they had many non-pressing obligations, but they’re so much less important), and what’s the point of being young (shut up, early thirties is definitely still young) and free and technically- sort- of- kind- of- rich, if you can’t just up and disappear for a weekend (or a week or month, but they don’t really want to push their luck, and the non-pressing obligations will become pressing obligations soon enough).

 

So, they up and disappear for a weekend.

 

Only three or four hours away from LA, but as far as they’re concerned, they may as well have been the last two people on the planet.

Snow reached as far as they could see, and then further, and not another soul for miles. At least.

 

There was no wifi (but wasn’t that half the point of the weekend), data was essentially non-existent, and cell coverage could barely be described as ‘patchy’ considering how limited it’s usage was.

 

(The host had pointed at a small patch of trees a hundred metres or so from the cabin that you could “usually” get coverage from, but the house and the rest of the property … she had paused for a moment longer than was comfortable and then shrugged – an expression on her face as if ‘what are you going to do about it?’. That was unsettling. “Don’t get lost, they’ll never find the bodies,” she offers instead of a ‘goodbye’ after leaving them with the keys, with a grin that looked sincere but still a bit too manic. That was more unsettling.)

 

But it was quiet and it was secluded, and there was no chance someone would accidentally wander across them, and that’s exactly what they were looking for.

 

The first task is lighting the (quite frankly – enormous) fireplace that takes pride of place in the main room of the three roomed cabin (the other two being a modest sized bedroom, and a bathroom with a bath that Lily is convinced you still have to fill via bucket it’s been that long since it was updated).

 

 _It's quaint_ , James insists.

 _It’s old_ , Lily insists.

(She loves it anyway)

 

James’ first attempt at lighting the fire doesn’t go quite to plan, the flames spluttering almost before they had a chance. He shrugs it off – the first attempt never works. His second attempt fails just as quickly and his brow furrows in slight annoyance.

His third attempt is the cruellest, in that it raises his hopes for ten seconds as it almost looks like the kindling is going to take before disappearing back into the black nothingness.

 

He’s all of thirty seconds away from cursing out the fireplace, when Lily comes up with the idea of going for a walk through the nearly pristine outside. (Not that watching him curse out the fireplace wouldn’t be completely hilarious – it just wouldn’t set the … right mood for the start of their weekend. There’ll be time to curse random inanimate objects that don’t behave perfectly later, _after_ the romantic stuff.)

 

And it is romantic, and beautiful, and nothing like their usual surroundings.

(After the layers and the layers, and the hats and scarves and gloves, and it’s still cold – but a nice cold, not a burn through your skin and chill your bones cold. Which is good – no one likes burn through your skin and chill your bones cold).

The trees and the faint sounds of various animal life just out of sight, and – of course – the snow.

It’s not deep, maybe two inches, definitely no more than three inches – just enough to feel satisfying to walk through and beautiful to look at – without being a pain to walk through or depressing to look at.

 

The snow starts falling, not heavily, just a light flurry of snowflakes, just enough to get caught in their hair and on their eyelashes, just enough that James has no choice but to sacrifice his hands from the warmth of his gloves, just to take a selfie (or two or three) of the pair of them.

 

He puts his phone safely back away in the pocket it was hiding in, and he saves his fingers from the biting cold – back in his gloves once more.

 

There’s a moment when he just … looks at her, like he still can’t quite believe it’s real, like it hasn’t been almost six years since they started dating (properly) and more than that since their first meeting, their first kiss, their first film together.

And then he kisses her.

 

(Of course, he does – they’re almost obligated to kiss in the rain by this point, and what is snow but half-frozen rain. It’s still almost the same thing. It’s better anyway.)

 

And they’ve kissed dozens of times on the screen (she could almost definitely count them if she thought for a moment); but they’ve kissed hundreds (maybe thousands) of times off screen (she could never count them, even if she tried, even if she wanted to, and she’d never want to quantify or qualify her love for this mad, adorable, wonderful man she’d fallen in love with, and never wants to stop loving).

 

It’s too soon when he pulls away, but breathing is still a thing, even if they wished it wasn’t so necessary.

“You had a snowflake,” he half-explains, and it’s a threadbare excuse (not that he ever needed an excuse to kiss her.)

“Oh. So do you.”

She kisses him this time.

 

It takes far longer to return to the cabin than it took walk out.

They don’t mind.

It’s a wonderful start to the weekend.


	4. Poe Party: Hogwarts Professor!AU

The start of the school year was always a good time.

Filled with promise and excitement, and teachers have a short memory – they’ve usually forgotten the “why don’t I just quit and raise dragons in the mountains?” moments over the long summer.

So yes, the start of the school year was always a good time.

The better time was the few days before the students arrived, when the castle is solely occupied by the staff and the ghosts, and they all simultaneously forget they’re supposed to be responsible adults, charged with the moulding of young minds.

 

Setting up the transfiguration classroom for her third year as a Professor, Lenore (or as she is known to the students … Lenore. Professor Poe makes her sound old, and boring, and there’s already one Professor Poe in the school, and he is old and boring. And her brother. Not her husband – although there are at least three students a year who get it wrong – and that’s just the ones who mention it to her face.) gives a few final flourishes of her wand and it’s done – at least until the first student blows up or otherwise destroys her hard work.

She does truly love transfiguration (she’d have to, the length of time she spends watching eleven year olds try and fail and try and fail to turn a match stick into a needle.) Turning water into wine, that’s a certain favourite of hers (completely non-verbal and wandless). Turning someone else’s wine into water, that’s even better (also non-verbal and wandless. They’ll never know it was her. Well – providing they’ve known her less than three hours that is).

 

Continuing around the castle, said Professor Poe from before (also known as Lenore’s totally boring brother, also known as Edgar, also known as many other names not entirely suitable for this section) is the Potions professor. It suits him – locked away in his dungeons for days or weeks (or that one time, months) at a time, interacting only with the dead or otherwise inanimate items for his potions (and Lenore when he hasn’t bathed, eaten or slept in long enough – in that order of importance).

And contrary to first opinions, he’s actually a really good teacher, even if he can be a failure of a human being at certain (a lot of certain) times. The number of students going on to get their Mastery in Potions has more than doubled in the six years since he took over the position.

 

Not that he ever meant to become a professor – he was all ready to move into an empty mansion in the middle of nowhere, never to have to speak to another living human being again (except when his sister decided she was visiting, or he was trying to sell another potion that may or may not do what it was supposed to onto his usual stockists).

And then Annabel Lee took the job of school nurse, and the potions position happened to open at the same time – and who was he to turn down fate? So now he’s the (quite well respected, if he does say so himself) potions professor of Hogwarts. And he still can’t bring himself to talk to her outside of a professional context.

 

Who is the Annabel Lee? Madam Lee, the school nurse. This wondrous human being; this gift to all the world; the best-est, nice-est, happiest, most wonderful person who ever existed (all actual things that have been said about her).

She’s the nurse (well of course she is – that was literally stated a paragraph ago, is there no new information about her), and one of Lenore’s oldest friends.

Nursing isn’t just a job, it’s written into the fabric of her soul – she joined to paediatric team at St Mungo’s straight from leaving Hogwarts, and it’s no surprise that she was the first choice to replace the leaving nurse.

A genuine smile, a bar of chocolate, and a flick of the wand or potion at the ready to deal with whichever wizarding children hurt themselves that day (and wizarding children seem to hurt themselves _a lot_ ), and the same works whenever Professor Poe (Edgar as she calls him – probably the only person to regularly use his first name) visits in increasingly less subtle and not at all professional related matters. She doesn’t mind.

 

There’s Professor Shelley teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts – terrifying enough that she accidentally makes at least one first year cry within the first week of every year; Professor Alcott in Herbology with her (also almost terrifying) love of trees that make it hard for her to talk about much besides; the other sibling pair of teachers – the Bronte sisters, Professor _Charlotte_ Bronte teaching Ancient Runes, and Professor _Anne_ Bronte teaching Arithmancy. There used to be another Bronte teacher, but no one talks about her anymore.

 

Ernest Hemingway teaches flying to the First Years and is the main referee for Quidditch matches when he’s not falling off his broom, blindingly drunk – why they haven’t replaced him yet with someone who can actually hold their alcohol, she doesn’t know. ~~Amelia~~ Emily (whats-her-surname, begins with a P-no-D-Dickens? – Dickinson, that's it, yes), Emily Dickinson takes Muggle Studies. She’s a good teacher, and it’s a good class … when the students remember to show up. She’s just so … Emily.

Professor Eliot (actually Professor Evans – but that’s a long story that Lenore has never really cared to listen to) teaches Care of Magical Creatures, and seems to take delight in upping the danger factor every week until someone loses a limb (it’s okay – Madam Lee has managed to reattach it in all but one case, and in that instance it was only two toes they lost for good) or until their fake (I can see the glue George, it’s obviously a fake moustache) moustache falls off – and it’s back to the simple stuff for a few weeks before they start actively trying to murder their students (they’re not really – but they might well have been).

 

Professor Dostoevsky teaches History of Magic, a Durmstrang taught Russian who somehow seems to have lower interaction in his classes than there was with the ghost he took over the lessons from. Professor Christie almost lives in the Astronomy tower. She didn’t come down for so long, there had been a rumour going around that she had spent so long gazing into the stars trying to solve mysteries of her own faking that she had accidentally died. Lenore absolutely did not start that rumour. She stole it off one of the Third Years, embellished it (just slightly) and then started it off again in the First and Fifth Years simultaneously. When Professor Christie remembered there was a Great Hall, and she was actually obligated to eat at least some of her meals there – at least four students screamed and one fainted when she walked through the doors.

 

There’s a funny relationship Lenore has with Professor Wilde of Charms – they’re both perfect examples of human beings (if nowhere near perfect examples of good human morality), their fashion sense is to die for, and they both have the best taste in people. Unfortunately (for each other – this is a great thing for the rest of the world), they’re too similar to put up with spending more than the minimum amount of time with each other. Otherwise they would have put their plans of taking of the world and ruling with a fashionable iron glove years ago.

 

Krishanti is like Lenore, in that she’s one of the two Professors who refuses to be called Professor – in fact, not even Lenore knows what Krishanti’s last name is and they’ve been friends for longer than either is willing to admit. Krishanti’s Divination knowledge (and mostly accidentally acquired Necromancy knowledge) is something to be admired, and there are always those few girls (and sometimes guys) who think she can actually see the future and raise the dead (so there was that one incident with the dead body that then wasn’t dead anymore. None of the them are spreading the knowledge around so it’s fine. Probably. Mostly. The Divination is fine. The Necromancy – almost definitely not fine) but sometimes even Krishanti forgets she’s supposed to be a professor and a role model and the students love her for it, so … there’s that?

 

There’s only one new hire this year – the new librarian, a HG Wells. Lenore met him only briefly – absent minded and a complete nerd, and nothing at all like the bitter faced shrew he was replacing.

He’d had his hands full with something that looked rather too Muggle to be technically allowed within the walls of the school, and if the three (admittedly relatively minor compared with the chaos the students cause) explosions that emanated from the library in the less than 48 hours since he situated himself there was any indication, he had no intention of being nearly so strict with the “silence in the library” rule. In addition – despite being one of very few adults within the school who was not actually a professor, he had the ‘absent minded professor’ thing, down to a _tee_ – the clothing, the mannerisms, the facial expressions. If he managed to last the year, he’d be a very interesting indeed.

 

But this was not the time for interesting new hires, or insufferable older brothers, or bestest besties, or friends or enemies or frenemies (yes Charlotte – this means you).

 

The children would be arriving within the hour, and there was a feast to dress for.

(First impressions are everything and Lenore gives a great first impression)

Let the year commence.

 


	5. Edgar and Lenore: A (G)host's Guide to Parties

A simple ( _Edgar you have like twenty pages of notes. Why? Stop._ ) step by step guide to the best possible ~~gala~~ ~~celebration~~ ~~gathering~~ ~~function~~ ~~get-together~~ party ( _you hate parties. You hate people._ **Go away Lenore.** _Eleven people died at your last party. And that’s not even including the mood_.) over the holidays, especially for those who are likely to be entertaining the already dead ( _just say ghosts Edgar. And you’re not entertaining us. You can’t get rid of us. There’s a difference_.)

 

The secret to a good party, is a good menu; and the secret to a good menu ( _is getting your live in ghost to do all the work for you while you sit in your room for weeks on end writing poetry you will never show anyone_. **I did not do that.** _You absolutely did that_ )

 _His next step is to plan the guest list carefully – which makes sense because last time everyone died because he didn’t plan the guest list himself_. **Everyone did not die. Including myself six people survived the night. And the rest came back as ghosts anyway** _. Of the six – two were not actually invited to the party and don’t count, and three were murderers and also don’t count. And you don’t count. You’re basically dead anyway._

 

 **Ignoring Lenore,** after the menu and the guest list you will have to ( _sit in your room for days on end and pen at least seven invitations to the beautiful Annabel Lee – just to_ make sure _she gets the invitation. One is never enough when you’re as creepy as Edgar Allan Poe_.)

 

**You know what Lenore; would you like to take over?**

_I would actually._

_So, it’s important to bring the host a gift when you arrive. Alcohol is always appreciated – wine is great, Dostoevsky brought vodka last time, that’s even better._

_Louisa brought sticks, Mary Shelley brought an unrisen loaf of bread, and HG brought blackened and burnt bread. These are not good ideas. Do not copy these ideas if you want untampered food._

_Speaking of untampered food; it is extremely bad manners to put your face in the soup – either on purpose or by apparently dying in it. Especially in full view of the chef. So, like … don’t._

**Stop it with the soup Lenore.**

_He died in the soup. In my soup. And he wasn’t even dead._

_Oh yes – no faking your own death to seek revenge against those you think have wronged you. A party’s just not the place for it. Try Friday the 13 th or Halloween instead, failing that, your standard full moon is great for exacting revenge_.

**Because a party planning guide is exactly where your revenge ideas should go.**

_And how many poems about murder have you written. That’s exactly where your revenge ideas go is it?_

[This continues for some time, devolving into mere childishness before being destroyed out of the same childishness – Annabel]

_In short; alcohol – good. Inedible “food” – bad. Inviting ghosts – good. Creating new ghosts from the previously living people invited to the party – bad. Keep the guests fed, keep them drunk and hopefully they’ll forget about how miserable there are until they leave and they’re not your problem anymore._

_And if it’s an Edgar Allan Poe party … wear stab proof clothing._

**There was only one stabbing and it occurred before she joined the party. The rest were hit over the head or strangled or poisoned or gassed or electrocuted or**

_I am rolling my eyes at you so hard right now, you know that right._


	6. Wellenore: Gender Bend!AU - Part 1

The life of a ghost isn’t exactly a difficult one – do what you like, eat what you like, where what you like, haunt what (or who) you like (or dislike as the case may be), none of the old rules of the living to tie you down.

The roommate kind of sucks though.

Well – Edgar’s not the worst person Lenard could have chosen to haunt for his foreseeable future (read: until living with Edgar gets so depressing that a literal ghost – someone who is, by definition, already dead – nearly dies from boredom), but did he really have to throw an entire dinner party, just to try and impress Annabel (who – by the way – already has an Eddie, and doesn’t need or want an Edgar as well).

Annabel is awesome (Lenard is well aware of this, they’d been best friends as children all the way until his untimely death – and he has multiple first hand knowledge of her amazing-ness and her terrifying-ness. Edgar currently only has knowledge of the amazing-ness), but like – make some more friends, dude.

And not only is _Edgar_ throwing the party, but it’s _Lenard_ who has to prepare it all.

 

One time. He mentioned he enjoyed cooking one time, and now he’s stuck cooking a dinner party.

Serves him right for trying to bond with an … Edgar.

 

But the preparations are over; the final touches placed in the dining room and in the kitchen (he’ll be using some of his “ghostly magic powers” to bring it up to the dining room because a) he’s not carrying like fifteen bowls of soup, plus the rest of the courses all by himself by hand and b) Edgar is not to be trusted carrying other people’s anything, also c) it looks super awesome), all that’s left is to wait for the guests to arrive.

 

And don’t they arrive in style.

(That’s sarcasm in case it doesn’t show)

At least Dostoyevsky and Charlotte bring alcohol. Louisa brings sticks (what are we supposed to do with them Louisa? Eat them? We’re not as insane as you apparently are – Edgar, why did you invite these people), Mary Ann (sorry – _George Eliot_ ) brings a single leg of meat, Ernest brings a knife (because that’s a sensible gift around these … authors. Read: lunatics.). Oscar brings himself and nothing else (You’re a gift Oscar – not that much of a gift). HG brings a large metal box she can barely carry by herself, a blackened loaf of bread (thanks – what are we supposed to do with that now), and seems to have forgotten she has a giant pair of goggles around her neck.

This bodes well for the evening.

* * *

 

Everything seemed to go well for all of about ten minutes.

The guests were seated (all except the _beautiful Annabel Lee_. Oh, and Eddie), but they turned up at the last minute, just as the soup was served.

Edgar was his usual awkward self, seating Annabel next to him, and Eddie as far away as possible (real subtle there Edgar) – and his rambling trying to explain the rules of the evening wasn’t making sense to anyone.

The soup was served, everyone was suitably impressed.

 

And then Eddie went and died in it and ruined everything.

 

Annabel went into total freak-out mode (it’s just a murder. Happens every day. Lenard imagines it happening every day to certain people he lives with).

HG – completely confused as to what’s going on (join the group) – goes and puts her face in the soup. Which is just completely disrespectful. Dying is one thing – you don’t really have much choice in it, but _choosing_ to put your face in a good soup? Why would you need to do that?

 

And then Louisa decides to go and get help and somehow manages to cough herself to death in the space of thirty seconds and everything just goes downhill from there.

There are eulogies that are far too good to be instantaneous (even from one as gothic as Mary Shelley herself), there’s a letter that makes everything worse and Edgar tries to prove his innocence (just give up – everyone knows you hated Eddie and wanted him dead. Are you upset he’s dead?), and somehow ends up looking even more guilty (well done).

And it ends with Lenard asking the worst possible question in a room full of authors – “Who here is the best writer?” he had _meant_ , who had the best writing script, but _of course_ , every single one of them raised their hand.

He picked HG, even if only because she had annoyed him least so far this evening (also – those goggles were distinctive. Just saying.)

 

But the speed at which she could build that murder board, and work out who had the highest probability of being the murderer – that was impressive, and Lenard can do things normal people would probably consider magic.

 

And then Mary Shelley dies, by HG’s weird metal thing, and isn’t that just the worst. Lenard really doesn’t want to consider the possibility that it was actually HG’s doing, but he doesn’t really have a choice.

 

The group splits up after that, and yeah, Lenard offered to show HG the attic, but that’s only because she wanted to start at the top of the building and work down, and the attic is totally _his jam_ , and who else better to show her around there.

* * *

 

They’re not doing as much “searching” as he expected though. It’s more, HG is building something that looks increasingly more complex by the second, and Lenard is sat on a case, amusing himself while he waits for her.

It makes more sense when she tries to explain the ‘cah-mera’ but not much more sense, and he’s being completely serious when he tells her it’s the dumbest idea he’s ever heard (even if he did start by telling her he means it in the nicest way).

It’s so adorable, the way her face scrunches up as she tries to explain herself, that he almost misses the throwaway way she mentions Eddie (as in – that first dead body downstairs Eddie) – but this tiny little inventor professor, bookworm author couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Eddie’s death. Right?

 

It’s the sincerity in her voice, as she first tries to pretend she doesn’t believe in time travel, then reveals that she does in fact believe, she really, really believes and Lenard believes her when she says she had nothing to do with Eddie’s death.

 

There’s a moment of curiosity, and he asks her what her name – HG – what it really is. “Terribly embarrassing,” comes the only reply, and that’s fair enough. Most people do have terrible names, and at least she’s trying to hide hers. Some people don’t make them effort.

 

Her question about his own death isn’t entirely out of the blue (ghosts are pretty rare, and people get curious about death, he’s surprised more people haven’t asked this evening. It’s not like any of the authors have a filter unless it’s to do with their own works. Or how exactly they each knew Mr Eddie Dantes. And isn’t that name familiar from somewhere. He knows it, just not from where), but it’s not one of the appropriate questions (not that HG seemed to be the type to stick to propriety, no matter the way she appeared on first glance)

 

He doesn’t mean to talk so easily about his death – struck down by illness on his wedding day isn’t the most glamorous or noteworthy death, but it’s the truth and he only embellishes it slightly – and his wife-to-be that was killed by the same only three days later.

He still doesn’t know how Krishanti brought him back but not her – but it’s one of the things he tries not to dwell on. She wouldn’t really be suited for the ghost life, and he really is.

It turns more sombre than he meant it to, and he tries to turn it around with a short quip but she doesn’t really notice.

 

“I suppose I’d be extremely sad too.” The words seem to leave her mouth without her really thinking about it, and there’s a moment – a beat – when a look is shared and no words are needed, and somehow they know what each other means.

And then the awkwardness sets in (of course it does – awkward could probably be HG’s middle name, if Lenard wasn’t completely sure her middle name began with G), and she needs more wire for the cah-mera, and he goes off to get it, because he needs to do … something, and that something needs to be not sitting directly next to HG Wells.

 


	7. Annabel and Lenore: Baking

Baking together had become something of a routine for the two lady ghosts living in Edgar Allan Poe’s house over the past year and a bit since they were both dead together.

It had been something they enjoyed doing together as children (or thought they enjoyed doing together as children – really, they mixed the ingredients for a few minutes before an adult took over and did 95% of the actual work), and all through their teenage years (when they actually did bake by themselves – sometimes successfully. Sometimes – as the (mostly) occasional fire would indicate – not.)

And now they were adults, and mostly grown up, and yeah – they were both dead and ghosts (not really the way they planned their lives going, but what are you going to do about it now, can’t exactly change it anymore), but they were living together under the same roof, and what more excuse do you need for twice a week baking sessions.

It was also totally good practice for Annabel to practice being corporal and interacting with the real world once again – and the delicious sweet goodies at the end each time don’t exactly hurt either.

* * *

 

So… baking together had become something of a routine, and in the run up to Christmas (as well as basically every other holiday and non-holiday they can tie food into) the baking gets a little more intense.

 

There were cakes and cookies and cupcakes and chocolates of all shapes and sizes (and flavours). On one occasion, HG had even been recruited by the pair to help them create the most impressive gingerbread house the world has ever seen – even more impressive than the ones they created last year.

He was banned from participating in any more baking sessions with the pair, after the decorating devolved into little more than an elaborate food fight (which – now Annabel thinks about it – is how Lenore and HG’s baking sessions ended up last Christmas as well. Maybe it’s just “a thing” with them. It’s a weird thing anyway.)

 

This is a thought she had without any hint of irony, while she placed the finishing touches to a cake that was shaped like a raven – for no reason other than Edgar had been looking slightly glum (or rather; slightly more glum than his usual already quite high levels of glumness), and this would probably cheer him up. Also, it was a chocolate cake. Everyone loves chocolate cake. Especially Annabel’s chocolate cake. It’s amazing.

 

Lenore’s chosen a new recipe for herself this time – deciding to “expand her horizons” and besides “it’s a super easy recipe anyway”.

If her language is any indication (currently – amusingly – directed at an inanimate chunk of butter that’s not behaving in exactly the way she wanted it to) … it’s not going great. It smells great though, a hundred spices coming together to make something Annabel’s never smelled before in exactly that combination yet somehow smells exactly like the holidays. Lenore’s magic like that.

 

The conversation flows quickly and easily – it’s always been easy for the pair of them to talk to each other (well … except for that bit they don’t talk about much. But except for then, it’s always been easy to talk) – and it switches topic just as easily – haunting techniques, fashion (obviously), how to trick Edgar into going outside at least once a month, that weird thing that lives at the bottom of the garden (Annabel says it’s just a family of rabbits. Lenore insists it’s the incarnation of evil, and wants nothing to do with it. They’re actually both right, but that’s something they won’t discover for a while, and not on purpose.)

 

They’ve kept to their weekly baking schedule for long enough that HG and Edgar both know not to bother them during the actual baking portion, or somehow all the baked goods seem to disappear before anyone else gets the chance to even try one – but they always appear eventually, usually around hour three, when the smell has gotten into every corner of the house and they can’t stand not coming and actually eating the source of the smell, instead of just imagining the taste.

 

It’s three hours and seven minutes into their baking session they appear this time. The actual baking portion is over – this is the eat and gossip and wait for the last few items to be free of the oven portion of their weekly routine.

It’s HG who turns up first, goggles around his neck, a second pair of goggles on his head, wire sticking out of his pockets, and his hands still black with oil or grease or dirt or just muck from whatever invention he’s been inventing this time. (He washes his hands before he goes near the cakes. He tried taking one before washing himself up once. It didn’t go down well.) Edgar follows done within three minutes – ink stains and the smell of paper and the smell of – _dear god when was the last time you left that room. Edgar you stink_ – (Lenore’s words. Annabel is more polite in her wording usually) and a pen tucked behind his ear that’s probably there by accident but you never really know with Edgar.

 

Edgar loves everything they make (of course he does, he’s still alive and needs food to survive. Like a boring person). HG loves everything they make as well (and Lenore thinks this means more because he doesn’t need to eat to live, so like, has to be telling the truth when talking about food. Especially considering the effort it takes as a young ghost to stay corporeal long enough to eat or drink _anything_.)

 

Baking together had become something of a routine for Annabel and Lenore over the past year.

Eating the baked goods afterwards – all four of them together – had become something of a routine as well.


	8. Wellenore: Coffee Shop!AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to that coffee shop chapter from last year's 25 days of christmas fiction. Enjoy!!

It’s been six months since Lenore entered Hell on Earth, this dreadful nightmare that she cannot seem to wake from no matter how she tries – the endless trials of the worst humanity has to offer, staring her in the face, day after day after never ending day.

This sentence can also be understood as: it’s been six months since Lenore started working in her brother’s coffee shop.

(It’s called ‘The Raven’. Why is a coffee shop called ‘The Raven’? Yes – I know you like ravens Edgar. Everyone knows that. But why did you have to name your actual shop after them?)

It might as well be hell.

* * *

It’s a Thursday when the coffee machine breaks downs and dies in the middle of the morning lull (of course it happens on a Thursday. When has anything useful or good ever happened on a Thursday?)

It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. It’s probably a monthly/every-other-month sort of occurrence, but it’s often enough that Lenore just rolls her eyes, and phones for the technician.

The voice on the other end of the phone is far too chirpy, but she promises that someone will be with them within ten minutes (Lenore would hope so – much longer than that and it’ll start to cut into the midday rush, and she needs those tips. She has a lot of _very important_ things she needs to buy.)

The technicians arrives eight and a half minutes later.

The first thing Lenore thinks when he walks through the door is ‘you’re not the usual technician’.

The first thing Lenore says when he walks through the door is “You’re not the usual technician.”

Lenore never really had much of a filter.

“He, uh, he retired. I’m the replacement.”  He’s an improvement (she managed to keep that one inside her head) – at least forty years younger than the previous one, a uniform that is (quite obviously) brand new, a nervous half smile, and a pair of glasses she thinks he’s forgotten are on the top of his head (and not sunglasses like a *insert word Edgar doesn’t allow her to use in front of customers here* – like actual proper ‘he probably needs these to see’ glasses).

“Um … there was a problem with something?” He offered, when she didn’t immediately show him to the issue.

* * *

There wasn’t an issue for much longer after that. In addition to looking better than the previous guy, he was also (clearly) much better at the job, completing it in just over half the time it would have otherwise taken.

 

She could get used to him.

She kind of hopes he’ll come around often enough for her to get used to him.

(Although that would mean a lot of broken everything and Edgar _would not_ be happy.)

(Oh well, when is Edgar ever happy)

(He had turned up for all of four minutes while the machine was being fixed and managed to look more and more glum with every passing second. It's something about people. He just really really hates people.)

(It's still a mystery why he opened a coffee shop)

 

“So, are you going to give me a name for the order? You know – as thank you for saving the machine and my job.” She’s smiling and it’s not her usual ‘customer service, I’m smiling because I literally have to, it’s my job but I hate you all and I’m dead inside’ smile – it’s an actual one, and she thinks he can tell. She hopes he can tell.

“He wouldn’t have fired you for the machine breaking, right? It’s an older model and is bound to have some problems now and again.” He actually sounded worried – it was rather cute.

Lenore laughed – not unkindly, it was more of a little huff combined with an eye roll that meant ‘well – you know Edgar’ (even though he – in fact – did not know Edgar). “Well, you know my brother,” she offers with a shrug, “a real stickler for the rules.” It’s a joke, Edgar doesn’t care for anything except his books and Annabel Lee. He doesn’t even care that much for the coffee shop, except that it’s a job in which all human contact can be farmed off to Lenore or one of the other baristas.

His eyebrows raised in a look Lenore tried not to read into, but if she was forced to (oh who is she kidding – she reads into everything for fun) she would guess it meant something along the lines of ‘he’s just your brother?’ along with a healthy serving of relief. And of course, a rather _too_ healthy serving of anxiety and nervousness and out of this world brains simmering underneath like she assumes always is.

“But as for that name?” Lenore asks again, trying to get the conversation back where she wants it to go, before it’s too late.

“Oh – HG. HG Wells.” He gestured vaguely at his name tag that read simply ‘Wells’, and Lenore had to admit that his surname should have been obvious.

“What does the HG stand for?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that. It’s dreadfully embarrassing.” His face was open and truthful, and he really wouldn’t tell her his name simply because it was “embarrassing”.

 

They talked easily for five or so minutes, HG enjoying his drink (he’d never given her his order, she just made him “what she felt was best. For you”. It was perfect), and Lenore turning away a few times when a new customer walked through the door.

But then his phone rang and it was his job (the people who pay him money so he can live, so he has to obey them – because that’s kind of what a job is), and he had to leave – finishing the dregs of his drink in two quick mouthfuls (that – judging from his quick expression – almost definitely burnt the inside of his mouth, because he had clearly misjudged how hot it still was.) It’s the sort of thing that kind of sums up who he is, she thinks as he leaves, taking the now empty cup with him, instead of just throwing it in the trash like a normal human being.

 

It was only after she watched him pull away from the shop (presumably for the next machine emergency or whatever he did between actual scheduled jobs), that while she had gotten – most of – a name, she had completely forgotten to either get or receive a phone number.

How soon can something break, without him getting suspicious?  
Now is way too soon, right?

 


End file.
